


Man of the Hour.

by nothingbutfic



Series: The Co-Opted Life. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5063605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/nothingbutfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's a fool born every minute, then Percy Weasley is the man of the hour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man of the Hour.

**Author's Note:**

> Set during PoA; first part of the 'Co-Opted Man' universe. Thanks to Mei, Chad, Amy and the usuals circa 2005-6.

*  
  
The Head Boy’s chamber is both sanctum and sanctuary, a refuge away from prying eyes and impolite ears. It is not large, nor does it need to be; the fact it exists speaks for itself. Each holder of the office puts his own touch on it of course – a framed picture hug just so on the wall, a potted plant there, the careful selection of a series of appropriately erudite and weighty tomes to line the room’s sole bookshelf.  
  
Upon being confirmed as Head Boy, Percy Weasley wasted no time. The previous office bearer was a Hufflepuff, who crowded the desk with knickknacks, cough lollies and helpful hints – a whole series of notes and ideas for those who would follow in his footsteps compiled neatly on ink and parchment.   _The Head Boy’s office is always open_ , proclaimed the first one; Percy threw that in the bin with the rest and kept both doors distinctly shut – if students wish to enter from the corridor (or when the Head Girl from the internal entrance), they must knock, take their time and wait their turn. Percy will not be swayed by anything less than due reverence for his position. It is, after all, the only thing he has; he is all too aware of the fact he is not popular, not easily liked, not especially considered a close friend or confidante of anyone in particular. This does not matter; he has his badge, and will make a fresh start – a new start – with his own rules and keep his own counsel. He need not listen to the advice of the past because he will make no mistakes, and the potted plant went straight into the bin as well. The bookshelves he has stacked with historical references – on the Ministry, on politics and law, on the weight of his own position. They remind him of every challenge he has to surmount – of the failures of others not to surmount them.  
  
He trusts he will not find himself wanting.  
  
Now, the lamplight burns low on the walls, casting flicking shadows about the room. He does not sleep here – he still sleeps back in the dorms two to a room like the rest of the seventh years, and it rankles, but he usually works late here, as late as he can. The Head Boy can set his own curfew, after all. Dormitory living is messy, replete with noise and distraction. Every moment spent in his office centres him, reminds him of both power and purpose, concepts his dormmate would never understand. It is for this reason perhaps that Percy likes and tolerates Oliver Wood as one might an overzealous first year, or maybe a puppy. He is, after all, pleasant, eager, honest (painfully so at times), a little clueless (and therefore Percy must set him straight), understands obsession and yet is neither threat nor rival – Quidditch, like Oliver, is something Percy cannot wrap his head around. He feels that he should have room all his own, but Professor Dumbledore merely smiled, spread his hands and talked of tradition.  
  
Percy wishes to make his own traditions, and knows when to leave so that Oliver is already abed and asleep, leaving no need for or awkward conversation, or any conversation at all. In light of what is to take place tonight, this is reassuring; better to not have Oliver say what he would say, better not to hear it.  
  
There is a knock at the door.  
  
Percy glances up, dips his quill in the inkpot and keeps on writing. He knows who it is; he knows exactly how long he wishes them to wait. This is a part of his privilege; this is his power, and power must be seen to be used so that it may be comprehended and acknowledged. When he finally puts down the quill and sets his parchment aside to blot he feels quite composed and equal to the task ahead. He is, after all, Head Boy – the office confirms it. There is his bookshelf; there is his desk.  
  
“Come in,” Percy raises his voice, and rests his hands on the polished wood in front of him.  
  
When Roger Davies opens the door, he wears a suitably bland expression, only made suspect by the keen intelligence in his eyes. He is not eager; he is not bold, not shy, not intimidated. He moves into the room like he won’t be cowed or impressed, and knows better than to swagger or gloat. Roger will not be false enough to himself to be humble, and Percy cannot help but dislike the very sight of him, as he always has and always will.  
  
“You wanted to see me, Percy?” Roger asks, voice deceptively innocuous and light, or perhaps he really doesn’t care and Percy isn’t sure which one he’d like less.  
  
“Yes.” There’s no especially polite way of broaching the subject, but broached it must be. “I’ve received some…disturbing information about your nocturnal activities, for want of a better term.”  
  
Roger’s face quirks into a small smile, eyes twinkling in amusement, and he folds his hands in front of him – the very image of the impish schoolboy – before he schools his expression back to blandness. “Oh yes? I wasn’t aware who I slept with would be a concern of yours. Or maybe that’s the point.”  
  
“Don’t be  _absurd_.”  
  
“I’m not the one conducting an inquisition into people’s sex lives.” Roger doesn’t seem likely to back down, and he doesn’t get defensive either.  
  
“It’s a question of decorum, to say nothing of school rules. Curfews exist for a reason: so does propriety. I hardly want the first years coming across you two rutting like  _beasts_  in a classroom somewhere.”  
  
“You doubt that I can be discreet? Or perhaps you’re more concerned about Oliver.”  
  
“Oliver has responsibilities.   _You_  are a distraction.”  
  
“And I suppose you’d know, the copious amount of bonding time you have together.”  
  
That stings, and Percy flushes. It’s not his fault he’s always busy. “You consider what you have him do  _bonding_  then?”  
  
“You make it sound as if he can’t make up his own mind. Or know what he wants.” Roger’s smile deepens to a smirk. “He’s probably more clear about what his wants are than most people – it’s usually either winning Quidditch that week or bending me over a desk. Quidditch more often than not.”  
  
“So glad to see he at least has his priorities right.”  
  
“Always enjoys a good post-match fuck, though.”  
  
“Stop talking about him like that!”  
  
“What, so you don’t have to think about it?”  
  
“You’re nothing but a tawdry slut.”  
  
Roger’s expression hardens at that for a moment, insult and anger staring from hazel eyes. “Nothing but a slut, am I? You should see  _him_.” There’s a dangerous joy in Roger’s undertone; Percy ignores it.  
  
“Don’t you call him that. You use him and then you expect him to take the blame.”  
  
“Blame?” Roger laughs in his face then. “You think this is about blame, you sanctimonious little shit. You think I use him? I’m not the one getting shoved to my knees or pushed up against walls or roughed about so much I bruise for weeks.”  
  
“I don’t have to listen to this.”  
  
“Probably not, but you’re  _going_  to.” Roger tells him, and blocks his escape, palm slapping loud and hard against the surface of the desk.  
  
Percy jumps. “Get out of my way.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I’m  _warning_  you.”  
  
“I don’t  _care_  for your warnings. I don’t care for you at all, not your smug prudishness, or your petty jealousy. You don’t want to have to see what he is truly like so that way you can keep telling yourself you’re better than him.”  
  
“I don’t think that,” Percy protests, but it’s a second too late.  
  
“Of course you do. You with your badge and your high marks and your perfect girlfriend and picture postcard life.”  
  
“And Oliver could do just as well if he tried.”  
  
“But he doesn’t  _want_  to!” Roger bursts out, and Percy falls silent. “And that’s what gets to you, doesn’t it? The fact he’s happy the way he is. Makes you wonder about all your stupid rules and pointless denials.”  
  
“I don’t have anything to deny,” Percy tells him, and busies himself with organising the papers on his desk.  
  
“Oh? So you wouldn’t actually suck him off if he asked?” Roger’s tone is almost banter-like – he could be talking about the weather, but isn’t.  
  
“I don’t want to be just another notch on anyone’s belt,” says Percy stiffly, and can’t believe he even made that admission. Percy’s nostrils flare as he sighs and takes a deep breath. “You’re being absurd again. I have a  _girlfriend_ , with whom I have  _much_  in common-“  
  
“Yes, and you love her very dearly, so you’ve said. You hold hands and go for walks in the grounds and discuss who got detention that week. Very romantic.”  
  
“We both have responsibilities. I hardly think we should ignore them.”  
  
“Penny can’t understand what she’s doing wrong, Percy. I have to watch her cope.”  
  
“Are you sure you get time to do that, in between all your rutting?”  
  
Roger smiles because he knows he’s scored a point. “She thinks you hate her, because you won’t touch her.”  
  
“I’m just waiting for the right time,” Percy tells him, and bristles a little, after he shrugs. “It is a mark of respect. Not that I’d expect you to understand respect, Davies.”  
  
Roger leans in, palms flat against the wood of the desk, and his breath is moist and hot against Percy’s ear, almost cloying, and Percy can remember what his mouth tasted like. “There’s never going to be a right moment, Weasley,” he whispers, and Percy can hear the smirk. “She’s not about to grow a cock.”  
  
“You uncouth  _bastard_ ,” Percy snarls, and wrenches his face away.  
  
“At least I’m happy.”  
  
“Go back to your fucking.”  
  
“Oh, I will. But let’s not get into all that right now. I’m far more interested in how you came to know about  _us_. We have been fairly careful. Do you want to know what  _I_  think?”  
  
“Not especially.”  
  
“ _I_  think you caught us one night.   _I_  think you caught us and saw us and didn’t stop us and I think you  _watched_.”  
  
Percy avoids; it’s his only recourse. “What possible reason would I have to avoid my duties?” His lips compress to a thin, unsatisfied grimace. “Surely if I am the stick-in-the-mud rule-bound fascist you deem me to be, nothing would stop me from enforcing school rules.”  
  
“Ah, but you  _liked_  it, didn’t you Percy? You liked it and you wanted to  _keep_  watching. Probably went off somewhere afterwards and had a dirty little wank while  _not_  thinking about your lovely girlfriend.”  
  
Percy glances up at him and gives nothing away; he can't afford to, not now, not when Roger is so right and he is so very wrong. Of course he found them; of course he kept watching - they were beautiful. Panting and sweaty and flushed and proud, shameless and tender and considerate of one another, amongst sudden kisses and rougher treatment, and even Percy could appreciate the humour and affection shining in both their eyes. Of  _course_  he didn't stop them - he didn't have the heart to, or the will. “I expect you’d ‘do her’ as well?”  
  
Roger’s gaze is just as uncompromising as Percy’s own, and utterly without judgement, which makes it all the worse. “She deserves better than you. You’d probably suck me off right now if I  _told_  you to, wouldn’t you, Percy?”  
  
Percy rests his hands on the arms of the chair, favours Roger with a curious expression, and stays silent.  
  
Roger’s voice carries more authority in it, more power than Percy has managed to assert in two years of Prefecture and one as Head Boy. Roger is handsome, intelligent, witty – a little bit cocky perhaps at times, a little bit condescending and singular in his righteousness, but that likely only adds to his appeal.  
  
People  _like_  Roger Davies –  _more_  than like, people  _respect_  him. He cuts a dapper figure in his robes, whether in class or on the field, truly comfortable in his own skin. Percy knows not how to deny this man, who is everything he is not and should have been. Roger is a better man than he; more honest at least, and Percy aches to crawl on his hands and knees to do exactly what the man said with a sudden fevered desperation that makes his head dizzy and his arousal plain.  
  
“School trousers don’t leave much to the imagination, do they? I’ve always had fun with that.”  
  
“Roger,” Percy says, voice high and hesitant, unsure of how to ask but knowing what he needs, “Would you? Could you? I mean…” He trails off after Roger’s gaze, even more uncertain then when he began.  
  
“Oh.” Roger says, and looks at him, plain and focussed and disparaging. “I suppose you want me to tell you to get over here.”  
  
“Yes,” Percy breathes.  
  
“I suppose you think you’d crawl.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I suppose you’d suck my cock, kiss me, do whatever I said, fulfil every dirty little desire you ever had, all within the confines of this office, all private.”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
Roger leans forward and whispers in Percy’s ear, lips almost touching Percy’s skin. “No.”  
  
“No?” Percy jerks back, and blinks at him through his glasses, taking a moment to push them up his nose and regroup. His voice is pitched barely above a whisper; furtive and afraid of discovery now he's finally voiced something he never thought he would, and his shoulders are hunched over as if he doesn't want to be seen. “No? What do you mean,  _no_? I’ll  _beg_ , Davies, you can reduce me to  _that_ -“  
  
Roger sounds infinitely tired. “It’s not about you begging, you know.”  
  
“But I thought-“  
  
“You shouldn’t try that thinking stuff, Percy, you’re not very good at it. Leave it to us Ravenclaws.”  
  
“I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” Percy gasps, stating the obvious because it’s the only thing left in his possession.  
  
“I haven’t even started yet, my  _dear_  chap. Power does not reside in the hands of those who would wield it; but rather with those who are willing to tolerate its use. Never learned that, did you?”  
  
“What does  _that_  mean?” Percy sourly demands to know, and hates that he has to.  
  
“It means, Percy, old chap, old bean, old chum, that you have rapidly outworn your welcome. You’re a crawler, Percy. A  _crawler_. You wanted me to tell you to do it so you wouldn’t have to admit you wanted it; so it would be someone else’s responsibility. You’re going to go through life crawling from person to person, obeying anything, obeying  _everything_ , just as long as it means it’s never your  _fault_. You disgust me. I wouldn’t let you touch me, not for all the gold in Gringott’s.”  
  
Roger turns to leave, dismissal writ large over his frame. Percy feels a sudden need to keep him there, to keep him talking; he can’t lose as long as he keeps Roger in the room. “You’ll never sit at this desk,” he calls out, petty and brittle and spiteful. “You’ll never be Head Boy.”  
  
“Who says I’m fool enough to want to be?” Roger asks, turning back to him with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’m seeing Oliver later tonight.”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure you would be.” The words escape Percy’s lips before he can stop them, and he suddenly feels very tired. Sinking back into his chair, he removes his glasses and all but tosses them onto the desk, closing his eyes, hand massaging his temple. “He’s not a slut,” he announces, with something approaching Gryffindor stubbornness.  
  
“He’s whatever he wants to be. By his standards, not yours.”  
  
“If you hurt him-“  
  
“What, more than you already have?” Roger snorts. “He doesn’t get you, you know.”  
  
Percy reaches forward to grasp his glasses by an arm and pulls out a handkerchief with a flourish to breathe on the glass and clean them before he slips them back on. Without a further word, he dips his quill into ink and returns to his paperwork. There is always paperwork; this is the sum total of his existence.  
  
“Take care of him for me,” he says, simply.  
  
“I will,” Roger promises softly, before the vitriol returns. “Get a  _life_ , Percy.”  
  
Sound advice, and it stings; if only Percy knew how to follow it. “I am Head Boy!” Percy blazes, and replaces the quill in its well, standing right up out of his chair. He leans over the desk as if that proves it.  
  
“Oh, fuck  _that_ ,” Roger literally growls at him, and lunges forward, hands cupping to wrestle Percy’s face forward and press him into a rough and hungry kiss, all lips and tongue and teeth, and Percy responds in kind, clinging to him like a drowning man.  
  
When the kiss ends – and it is not long, or especially sweet – Percy fiddles with his tie and avoids Roger’s eyes. “I am Head Boy,” he repeats, but it seems to lose something in the repetition.  
  
“It’s just a badge,” Roger tells him, and the pity-and-contempt in his eyes is terrible to see. “In five years time, in two, what’s it’s going to matter? Who’s going to care?”  
  
Percy brings himself straight up with all the height he possesses, and sniffs. “ _I_  will care,” he intones, and pushes his glasses up his nose.  
  
“Yes, I rather suppose  _you_  will.” Roger looks at him, and clearly finds him wanting. “You don’t even have the guts to go after what you want, Percy, let alone discover who you are. Oliver would bugger you over your desk if you asked him to. Jump at the chance.” He grins then, rakishly, and Percy feels the pull of that grin. “So’d I, if you weren't such a shit.”  
  
“Forgive me if I don’t take you up on the offer.”  
  
“You could have all that. All that and more. You just don’t have to be ‘Head Boy’, proper son and marriageable entity. You could be so much more than just a category, Percy. But I guess we’ll never know.” He smiles, cocks his head in a smug little salute. “I’ll try not to keep Oliver up too long.”  
  
The door closes quietly in his wake, and Percy is left nonplussed and blinking. He looks around the office – his office – and it no longer seems like either sanctum or sanctuary. The shadows on the wall hint at everything he cannot control, flicking and changing according to the light, and even his desk feels more like a prison all of a sudden; separating him from any chance of escape and tying him down with regulation and the weight of his position.  
  
There is a knock on the door. Percy jumps. It takes him a few moments to orient himself; it is the internal door that the sound is coming from, not the one from the corridor, and nervously he calls out his assent for the visitor to enter.  
  
The door opens, and with it comes Penelope Clearwater, tray in hand, and she smiles at him in such a way that makes Percy’s stomach clench with guilt. “Percy,” she greets him, and sets the tray down on the desk, before reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “I thought we might go through the detentions list for next week, so I got the kitchens to send some tea and cakes up.”  
  
“How very thoughtful of you,” Percy murmurs and takes himself a cup, adds milk and sugar, and stirs almost mechanically.  
  
“I should figure I know just the way you like it by now,” she teases him, the smile in his eyes as she leans in to kiss his hair, and Percy can feel himself stiffen a little, and Penny stiffens as well in response, pulling back to settle in the chair opposite and fix her own tea. “Shall we start, then?” Penelope asks him, smile a little tighter and more fixed, but then she always does like to put a brave face on everything. It’s one of the reasons that he was attracted to her in the first place.  
  
They spend the next hour or so munching on tea and cakes and undertaking their professional responsibilities. It helps Percy centre himself, and when Penny rises to leave he even manages to awkwardly kiss her on the cheek. It’s a lie, of course, but she deserves that at least, and he can break the rules if he wants – he is Head Boy after all, he has that much power still, and the evidence is plain: there is his bookshelf, there is his desk.

*


End file.
